


it's a cold and it's a broken (hallelujah)

by GhostNox181



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Oh my heart, You Have Been Warned, a bit bloody, just bloody, not violent, oh god I'm SORRY, oh god angst, seriously, this is bloody depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostNox181/pseuds/GhostNox181
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes the hit for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a cold and it's a broken (hallelujah)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by sexlock's picture which you can find here...
> 
> http://sexlock.tumblr.com/post/6249961543/i-do-enjoy-drawing-emo-pics-now-its-johns-turn 
> 
> Gosh, this is sad. I'm sorry.

There’s so much blood.

He’s desperately holding a hand to wound, pushing down on it with all the strength he can muster. A whimper escapes trembling lips and pressure falters, a second hand coming up to lay shakily, gently, on top of the first.

But there’s so much blood and he doesn’t know what to do.

It’s soaking the shirt and has seeped through the heavy jacket and there’s a pool forming on the ground as his hand covers the wound and tries to hold the blood in, begging it to stop, to stay, to clot, to _dammit_ stop bleeding! But it keeps coming and his hand is covered in the red, sticky substance and he can no longer see the color of his skin against the stark defiance of the blood as it pours from the wound. Still, he pushes his hand down harder, fragmented bits of logic assuring him that if he can get enough pressure the blood will stop, it will clot, but only if he can convince it by forcing so much pressure onto the wound that another pained whimper escapes through blue lips but he doesn’t stop because he knows this, he _knows_ this, and it will work, but _god there’s so much blood!_

He can feel it, too. The heart pumping wildly, erratically, trying to get blood flowing through the body to replace the lost fluids, but the wound is still seeping the precious red substance and no matter how hard the heart pumps, no matter the valiant efforts, it grows weary and tired as the blood just seeps from the body. The skin is pale and clammy but as he lays a cool hand on a feverish forehead, a shudder rips through the body beneath him and air is gasped for as the body begins shutting down.

He listens, teeth clenched together, his jaw aching from the effort, as struggles for breath pain the tired heart, and he knows, because _dammit_ why does he know everything, that the body is now losing oxygen as well as blood. The hand covering his on the violent hole that gapes up at him tauntingly squeezes gently, lightly, so barely that he wonders if maybe he imagined it. But the muscles in the wrist are straining and there’s a slight twitch to the fingers as they close around his knowingly.

“Don’t do this…” he breathes, and he can’t say more because he doesn’t know more and it pains him because he should. He knows everything, he does, but he doesn’t know this and he doesn’t understand why, and he can’t get himself to let go of the wound and offer the man words of comfort instead.

Blue eyes open, blinking, fluttering as shudders of pain tear through the broken body as the life leaves it, and they stare up at him. Pained, glassy, not there, but struggling to focus on the face that is peering down at him, the agony of the fallen echoed in his shadows. A smile, grim and caked with blood and trembling terribly, so soft and so sad, resigned, forms on the pale lips. He can see the strains this action is putting on the weary body, and he wants to yell, to scold, to demand that it stop so the fallen man can rest, but the smile, however aching and faint, is reassuring and he needs it and he can’t make himself command that it go away.

He starts when a shaky hand, the opposite of the one on his as it covers the wound, rises from the ground. The fingers are limp but trembling, pale and cold, and he doesn’t understand. The hand reaches for him, misses, about two inches from his face, and it seems it can’t quite comprehend where it is or where it’s supposed to be, so he tilts his head slightly to the left and lets his cheek fall into the hand, resting in the frighteningly cool palm. It’s a wonder, he thinks, the arm has any strength to hold itself up anymore, but he doesn’t care because the blue eyes are watching him and the smile is aimed at him, and underneath his hand he can feel how faint the heartbeat is growing.

He takes his hand from the wound, causing a weakly curious bit of wonder to dart through blue eyes as he tucks his hand behind the man’s shoulder and lifts him from the ground. Unsteadily, unsure, not understanding his own actions, he pulls the man into his arms, against his chest, holding him there, feeling the blood soak his own shirt and letting his clean hand cover the wound from the back, shocked at the damage and shocked at how he didn’t realize. How he should’ve.

The hand still rests on his cheek, and he’s got the face tucked close to his neck. He can scarcely feel the nearly nonexistent breaths on his skin, and he can only barely feel the heart through the wound and the veins of the neck are humming so barely, so weakly, so wearily.

He feels it happen.

A shudder rings through the body in his arms and he tightens his hold, securing the body, promising safety and healing. But the shudder subsides and he can no longer feel the breaths on his neck, the cool, tiny puffs of air that promised life. And the veins of the neck are thrumming no longer, sitting lifelessly beneath the pale skin. And his hand, pressed into the back, holding together skin and desperately trying to stop the wound from bleeding, feels as the heart beats, stops, flutters, stops, and hums one last time before the body gives no sign of life, of existence, of being there.

The life in the body is gone.

The hand slips from Sherlock’s cheek as he rests his forehead on John’s shoulder, sliding down his arm and coming to rest on the pavement. He shuts his eyes tightly, blocking off the world, clenching his jaw so much his entire head aches. His whole body is tense, holding the lifeless form of his best friend in his arms, and that damn blood is still slowly creeping through the wound, pressing through Sherlock’s fingers as his arms tighten around John.

He hears sirens in the background, the sirens he called Mycroft for what feels like an eternity ago. The sirens that are too late. The sirens that can’t save him, can’t save John. Worthless now.

Then someone is there, and there is a hand on his shoulder and he knows its Mycroft, and it’s a rare display of affection as Mycroft squeezes his shoulder reassuringly but Sherlock doesn’t care because Mycroft wasn’t fast enough and there’s nothing he can do to make this situation better and all he really wants to do is be alone. But then officials are streaming in a Sherlock is gently being coaxed from the body and they’re taking John away, Mycroft, do something, they’re taking him!

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft says gently, and Sherlock turns from where he had been staring as officials checked over John and put him on a stretcher and covered him with a sheet and Sherlock can’t understand why he didn’t help, what he did wrong, and Mycroft should be sorry because he wasn’t fast enough but Sherlock knows it’s not really his fault, but god, he just wants someone to blame. He wants John back.

So when he turns and suddenly throws his arms around his brother, he’s a child again, getting picked on and made fun of and not understanding and needing comfort and having nobody to turn to but his obnoxious older brother whom he doesn’t even really like but he does love his brother in that obligatory way and right now he needs someone, and the one he wants he can’t have, and so his brother will have to do. And as his brother frowns and pats his head like he did when they were children, he feels his walls crumble for a moment because he is the smartest person on earth, the most brilliant, and has been since he was a child, and he could do nothing to stop the only person he cares about from dying, and now he doesn’t understand anything, not life, not science, not his knowledge, and he doesn’t know anymore.

He wants John back, and when the first tear, the first since he was a teenager, slips down his cheek, he doesn’t stop it, because he is human, and he does hurt, and he does have a heart. And it just died in his arms.


End file.
